


Dread Sovereign

by FayeLunatic



Category: Hannibal (TV), Secretary (2002)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Empath Will Graham, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sassy Will Graham, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-05-23 05:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14927946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayeLunatic/pseuds/FayeLunatic
Summary: Will is leaving the mental hospital to start his mostly adult life. Dr Hannibal Lecter is hiring a secretary.





	1. Chapter 1

Will Graham stood outside of the mental hospital, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible in the muggy Florida afternoon. His small bag sat next to his feet―where he placed it just before Dr Bloom gave him an awkward hug, soft smile, and reassurances that he was ready. 

Will thanked her. She really had tried to reach him. He wasn’t sure himself what needed to be done anyway. He didn’t know why he had to leave. It was just his sister’s wedding, not like he was included in anything like this before. He didn’t even have a suit. And he was getting better in the hospital. 

It was the routine. He knew what would happen. He didn’t have to build cages and walls for unexpected emotions that seemed to seep in and out of him in the outside world. He could ease back into letting the world pass around him, in muted colors and muffled sounds, as if in a stream.Will knew what was expected in the hospital – he didn’t have the same luxury at home.

Will saw his mother pull up in her station wagon with a smile – too big, too bright, waving excitedly as if she was greeting a celebrity and not her own mentally ill son she locked up. Not that he begrudged her. He had miscalculated. He was usually so good at only making small cuts―hidden ones. He had not counted on hitting a vein in his rush to not be noticed. It was a mess. That’s how he was found out.

He lifted his bag, tugged at his plaid sleeves, and walked over to his mother’s car. She kept up the smile and the chatter about the wedding, as if she had just picked Will up from the airport and not a hospital. He laid back in the bench seat and let it all flow around him, not wanting to engage in much of anything just yet. It was all still too much. Mrs Graham barely seemed to notice as she drove them home into the chaos of wedding preparations.

 

Apparently, there was a suit that almost fit Will in the back of some closet, found and deposited on his bed in his room. It smelled of mothballs. He dressed and went down for the wedding. It was held in their backyard―paper lanterns everywhere, fold-out tables laden with typical suburbia cookout food, and everyone was all smiles. Will did his best to tune everything out. Or at least down – after the sterility of the hospital, even this backyard party of family and neighborhood friends was too much. His suit itched and stank. His hair was wild with the humidity turning his curls into something with a mind of their own and he just wanted to vanish. Will tried his best to imitate a very boring shrub on the deck. He watched people he was supposed to know live a life that felt as alien to him as if he had been dropped into the middle of Mongolia.

“Hey you, haven’t seen you around!”

Will turns to face the speaker. Molly, a friend from school. A sweet girl, now grown up and looking almost as awkward as Will himself. He manages a smile and a soft “Hello…”

“How have you been, Will?”

“….um. I don’t know… I had a breakdown.” He has no idea why he just said that.

Molly’s gaze softens. “Yeah. I kinda did too.” Her face reddens slightly.

Will looks Molly in the eyes, a rarity for him. Smiles. She smiles back.

“So, crazy boy, wanna have a dance with an unstable girl?” Molly laughs awkwardly, clearly not at home with the party either. 

Will feels her shaky emotions and can’t help but relate. Even if he wasn’t so good at feeling what other people do, he’d feel Molly’s nervousness and be just a little grateful that someone else isn’t having the time of their life either, on what should be an endlessly happy day.

But of course, Will’s father stumbles over to them immediately after they danced,―well, moved about and shyly giggled at each other and the cheesy DJ― beer in hand. Will draws into himself immediately when his father’s hand falls on his shoulder.

“It’s so good to see you, son.” He slurs and takes another pull from his beer.

“I thought you quit drinking.” 

Will is trying not to shake and cry. He had hoped his father would finally notice, finally KNOW how badly he was hurting everyone. Will remembers being told his father had sobered up and finally went to AA during his time in the hospital. He really thought the unspeakable message had gotten through to the man he could never talk to. That he wasn’t the son he wanted. But he wished he could be loved anyway. That he would at least stop drinking and turning on his family.

Will’s father swayed, handed his beer off to Molly, and said, “see, I quit, ok….come here,” and pulled Will in for a hug. 

Will stiffened and held his eyes open in hopes the tears wouldn’t fall.

“I’m glad you’re home,” his father mutters. He then turns to Molly, saying “Dear, I think I’m tired, I need to sit,” and stumbles into a chair, guided by Molly, looking very embarrassed. 

Will is left swallowing a scream. Not again. He can’t live like this again. Will feels the darkness swell in him again―the loathing and the unnamed pain. He drifts away from the crowd, and makes his way back into his room, still draped in the tacky little “welcome home” sign. He can’t help but let a few tears fall once in his room, one place that’s his again. With stuttering breaths, he angrily wipes at his face and stalks over to his bed, praying his mother didn’t do a search of his room―or if she did, wasn’t thorough. He slips his hand under the mattress, and sighs as his fingers touch his fishing hook cases – one larger, another smaller for travel.

Will pulls his kits out and sits at his desk, just feeling a little calmer holding his implements of self harm. He opened the larger one, fondly gazing at the hooks, line clippers, small knives, a bottle of iodine, bandages, and fishing line, all in their separate little compartments. He once was avidly into hand-tied lures, and fished quite happily, but that was before his father had chosen drinking over fishing on those trips. Will knew his father had lost several jobs and felt like a failure himself. Will always knew what people were thinking and feeling far too easily. Dr Bloom called it hyper empathy, but he just knew it caused problems. His father would just get angry at Will for asking anything about what was wrong, so he stopped. But he didn’t stop feeling – so he found a way to feel something else.

He picks up a fishhook and starts to tie it to a line, when he hears cheers and the rev of a car engine. His sister. On the way to her honeymoon with her husband. Will’s gaze shot to his window, where the noise is drifting up to him, and he huffs out a frustrated sigh. He places the hook and line back, slamming the lid on his kit, and shoves it in a drawer. He lets a few more hot tears fall, but the worst of the feeling has passed. He supposes he’ll have to get used to it again― that pushing darkness eating through him, pulling him into a whirlpool where he only heard his blood rushing around his body.

At some point, the blood will meet the air.

The thought strikes Will like a psychic slap, and he growls at himself.

In the next few days, Will sees how his father is drifting further into his boozy cloud. He tries to shut it all out of his head, even gets desperate and tried some self-soothing techniques from group. 

They don’t work. 

He also knows his mother is only putting on a brave face. She’s more terrified than ever. She tries to talk to his father one evening, but he just immediately starts screaming, which Will hears clearly through the floor. 

“Leave me alone!” He yells. 

“You’re drunk and haven’t been to work in days!” She screams back.

“I hate that job!” He roars back. “I like being drunk!”

Her voice rises to hysterics about everything and nothing. Then the thud of her body against furniture and wall. A slamming door. Mr. Graham drunkenly drives off into the green night.   
Will sits on his bed in his t-shirt and boxers, stiff and brimming with tears. He feels the familiar pressure from the inside out―the hatred that whispered he could have avoided all of this if he just wasn’t himself. His breath starts to stutter and he stalks across his bedroom, his hands flying to the desk drawer. He pulls out the tackle box and sits down. It’s covered in decoupage from fishing and hunting magazines. Another testament to Will trying to reach the kind of man he was supposed to be, but still wasn’t. Art made from scraps of manly activities. He still loves seeing the jumping fish and the serene deer. They calm him, just as the next steps always did. Both are a little bitter.

He opens the box after running his hands over the shining fish and retrieves the hook he was tying. He finishes tying the line, pushes back from his desk, and positions the hook over his thigh. He’d prefer his arms, but it’s a lot harder to get away with long sleeves than it is pants in this climate. His breath catches and he flushes with endorphins and pain as he pushes the hook into his leg. Will sinks it in further, holding in sobs as he pushes the end of the hook back up and out of his skin. Blood runs from the wound in twin lines, bright red and lovely. His tears are gone. Will feels a beautiful calm overcome him, like his mind is bathed in pure white light. His breath smooths out as he pulls on the line attached to the hook in his leg, even as he occasionally hisses in pain, but it’s all better now. 

He can just be present for the pain and blood. These things were simple. He just had to bandage it later.

He knows this is fucked up. That dealing with internal pain by making it external solves nothing. But he’s fucked up. He doesn’t know how to even start his fucking life.

Will gazes at his own blood for a while after removing the hook. Just breathing and thinking how beautiful blood really is, how few people appreciate that. He’s certainly still floating on endorphins too. Will cleans up, bandages his wound and goes to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I already had this next chapter written, but instead of edit it to the ground, here it is. I probably won't get them all up this fast. I'm mostly through chap 3, but no promises.

He tried to carve out some kind of routine, but with his father absent and his mother finishing up the pool house for his sister and her husband, Will was largely left to his own devices and his own turbulent thoughts. He’d float for hours at a time in the pool at night, and hide in his bedroom much of the day. He knew he was isolating, and it wasn’t good.

Will found some classes to take at the local community college, trade skills like welding and mechanics, but found himself signing up for a typing course as well. He knew what his father would think, but he’s not there. And a great many jobs involve computers. He can’t help but feel a little curl of black shame, however, when he quickly establishes himself at the top of his typing class. Will knows he can do “real work”, he’s not unskilled in mechanics and such, but he finds no joy in it. Not that there’s any joy in finding he’s terribly good at something so “soft.”

He’s stewing in this confusing mix of feelings while stretched out in the bench seat of the station wagon, his mother twittering away at how proud she is of him, getting back out into the world. What is he returning to the world as?

Will bolts up to his room as soon as they get home, and drags his kits out again. His hand trembles the slightest bit over them, unsure what it was meant to do. Will felt that dark tendril in his gut, and was so tempted to act on it, let the pain white out the confusion. He wanted to get better. Do better. He dragged his ass through classes so he could get certificates that proved he can do things. Live a life.

He snatches both kits up and heads downstairs, ready to throw them out. He makes it down the stairs, and nearly to the kitchen door when he spots his mother. In the kitchen, putting a bike lock on a cabinet. Every single sharp knife was out of sight. Well, behind those locked doors.

She looked up at him, doleful and chagrined to be caught in this act. “It’s just a precaution, honey,” she murmurs, trying to see into the cases Will is holding now and not be as obvious as she is being.

Will simply stiffens and stalks out the kitchen door and out to the trash cans. He flings his kits into an open can and turns away – and stops. He feels chained to those goddamned kits, all the little sharp edges and points he can turn on himself and relieve any pressure. Tears start to fill his eyes as he turns back and picks the cases up out of the garbage. He blinks the tears back, and notices the classified section of the paper just under where his kits were. His curiosity gets the better of him, and he brings the classifieds in, only slightly stained by coffee grounds, to see what he sees.

 

Rain is drumming steadily on the roof of the station wagon as it pulls up to Will’s first interview. He has no idea why he picked to apply as a receptionist at a psychiatry practice, but he can’t turn back now. Will dreads talking to people, but typing was listed as a required skill. He knows he’s good at it. He even has a recommendation from Dr Bloom, who was delighted to hear Will was looking for work, and immediately wrote one up for him. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. Though he hates the idea of spending so much time around a shrink. Most of them have simply exhausted Will in the past, yet here he was, about to ask to work for one.

Will takes a deep breath and opens the car door out into the wet, struggles briefly with his umbrella, and splashes down to walkway to the front door of the psychiatrist’s office. A plaque beside the door bears only one name, Dr Hannibal Lecter. So a very private practice then.

Will’s nerves start to crowd in on him, so he does the only thing he can – he pushes the door open and enters. He peers about, his glasses fogging from the sudden transition into chilled air. He grunts and starts to wipe his glasses in his sleeve, only to be startled into shoving them back on his face to see who appeared at the corner of his blurry sight without a sound.

A tall man in a pale blue tailored suit stood in the opposite doorway, looking over Will with measuring and curious eyes. His silvery-sandy hair was combed back, and his lips curved in the slightest of smiles.

“oh…” Will stammered. “You’re Doctor Lecter?”

“Yes, I am.” His voice is dark and soft, with a whisper of an accent that’s so travelled it no longer has a place.

Will is captivated by the sight. Not only is he standing in a beautiful reception area, he can see an even more lavish office behind the extremely handsome doctor. He’s suddenly flustered beyond words, because he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to expect, but this wasn’t it. He walks stiffly over to Dr Lecter and holds out his wet typing scores and resume. The doctor looks down at the documents like someone was offering him a questionable fish.

“You….it said secretary.” Will blurted.

Dr Lecter’s eyes shot back to Will’s face, looking luminous and dark at the same time. “Yes, I advertised for a receptionist. You must be Will Graham. Won’t you come into my office?” He steps back and sweeps his arm down the hallway, directing Will into his spacious office, much bigger than he’d anticipated.

A full mezzanine bookshelf level, two leather chairs, a chaise lounge, and a large mahogany desk where the doctor seats himself, and gestures to the chair in front of the desk, either an antique, or a very faithful reproduction – as with the rest of the furniture, Will supposes. This guy loves his beautiful things. Though there was an odd space in the back he can’t quite see.

Dr Lecter cocks his immaculately groomed head and regarded Will like a specimen. Will knew that look and bristled. He should have known this was a terrible idea.

“Not very fond of eye contact, are we, Mr Graham?”

“Eyes say too much or too little, I’m not comfortable with it…” he blurts out before he can stop himself. Frustrated, Will scrambles for footing. “I….no, I hope that’s not a problem.”

Dr Lecter entertained a slight smile on his aristocratic face. “Not terribly, but it may be overcome. I see your only reference is a colleague of mine, Dr Alana Bloom. Has she diagnosed you on the autism spectrum?”

“I…..I’m not sure” Will sighs softly, several things suddenly making sense. She never came out and said it in so many words, but it seems nearly obvious now. No wonder Dr Lecter picked up on it immediately.

“You make associations quickly, everything in your mind touches everything else. No barriers in the bone arena of your skull. Must be distressing.”

Will simply stares at Hannibal Lecter numbly. He’s already retreating from this man’s razor perception. There’s also something vaguely unsettling about the doctor himself. It’s like a shadow at the corner of his mind, cold and crowned in antlers.

“Will, stay with me.”

His voice was soft and almost sounded bored, but Will felt an authority in it. He almost felt commanded, and did as asked. He brought himself back to this spacious and shadowy office, and looked Dr Lecter in the eyes. His eyes were warm and sharp, like raw honey. Will took a shaky breath and said “I’m here.”

“You’re really too smart for a job as a simple receptionist. I believe a mind like yours would be bored. It’s mostly typing, keeping my calendar, and answering the phone. I don’t have a large amount of clients, I could easily manage on my own.”

Will shifted in his seat, sudden annoyance filling him. “You advertised for a secretary, I’m here, I scored pretty high on my typing exam, what’s your problem? Were you just looking for a date, I’m confused.”

He closes his mouth so fast his teeth click. God, why can’t he control what flies out of his mouth? Will starts to feel the pulsing darkness, and prays he can get out of here quickly to release it, employment be damned.

Dr Hannibal Lecter actually _smiles._ Really smiles, showing disconcertingly fang-like teeth. Will’s panicking mind is stopped dead by both the unexpected smile to his snarky comment and the man’s terrible and lovely face. He feels blank, and it’s a relief.

_What is going on??_ Will wonders.

“Will, don’t mistake my questions for dismissal. I’m intrigued that a young man of your intellect would want to apply to an essentially menial job.”

Will slumped in the luxurious leather chair, fighting the urge to vanish as much as possible. “I’m not that interesting, Dr Lecter. I want to be bored. I need a job.”

Hannibal Lecter regarded the young man before him, dressed in department store clothes, unshaven, clearly not enthusiastic about any of this. He practically smelled anxious. What a delicious opportunity.

“You have it, Mr Graham. Be here at nine tomorrow morning, and I will acquaint you with your desk and duties.” He rose, buttoning his jacket and checking his sleeves, which weren’t the least bit out of place. Will stood up, gazing at his new employer, who looked more like an aristocrat than a psychiatrist. His suit was lavish, and would have looked tacky on anyone else but him. It was almost like he dared it to look bad, and even the very fabric dared not.

He felt that shadowy presence again. Something tangled and cool and alluring. He wasn’t sure it was inside of him or not. Maybe it was both inside and outside – something in him responding to this Dr Lecter.

“Tomorrow morning, then, Dr Lecter.” Will murmured and slipped out of this office that felt like a cathedral, into the sticky humidity and his mother’s eternally waiting station wagon.


	3. Chapter 3

Will arrives at the doctor’s ornate office a few minutes early, which seems to amuse him. He does as he said yesterday, shows and instructs Will on how he runs his office. There really isn’t much for Will to do, which makes him curious – who hires a secretary they don’t really need?

Dr Lecter was the picture of propriety, keeping a distance that was both professional and calming to Will’s nerves. He was also anachronistic, keeping physical notebooks and calendars; Dr Lecter even wrote with a fountain pen, for fuck’s sake. There were no computers in sight. Will was amused to be shown an old fashioned typewriter.

“I hope this isn’t an issue, but I’ve never cared for computers, and much prefer to have my correspondence typed.” Dr Lecter looked over Will, noticing with pleasure that he had attempted taming his curls, and appeared to have ironed his shirt – not very well, but he tried. Lovely.

Will shrugged. “It’s fine, I learned on a typewriter.”

Dr Lecter gently smiles. “Well, I’ll let you get to it then. I’m positive you can manage.”

Will watches him glide away down the hall to his office. He sits in the antique wooden deck chair and lets out his held breath in a sigh. He likes working alone. This might not be the absolute worst. Will props up the first written page to type, rolls a clean sheet into the typewriter, and starts clicking and clacking away. He hates to admit that both the sound and the half-minded nature of the work soothe him, but they do. It’s one of the first times he hasn’t thought about hurting himself in weeks. The taps of the keys become a stream he can slide into and fade out of the present.

It’s not long before the stack of papers on his desk is finished. Will blinks in surprise around him. No one has called, or even come in for an appointment. He’s confused – a doctor would surely be seeing patients, wouldn’t he? Will is unsure whether to walk down that hall or not. Does Dr Lecter want to be bothered? But Will has no reason to stay without more work, and certainly can’t leave without saying anything to his employer.

With anxiety twisting in his gut, Will slowly creeps down the hall, to that lush office. He feels silly about his nerves, but that doesn’t stop them from grabbing him and sinking their teeth in. He opens the door and peers about the large office, managing a small murmur. “Dr Lecter, I’ve finished….”

He spots the doctor tending some kind of terrarium against the back wall of his office. Ferns and multiple varieties of mushrooms flourish around an artfully placed and softly decaying log. Dr Lecter appears to be spreading something gently around some small colorful fungus.

Will utters a soft “oohh” at the scene; he finds it calming and lovely. Dr Lecter turns and gazes up at the young man’s entranced face.  
“Already finished with today’s typing? That was quick.” The doctor brushed some soil from his hands and walks towards Will, who simply nods and continues to look at this strange indoor mushroom garden. Hannibal lets him. After all, he cleared his schedule for today to help Will ease into his position here, without too much stress. He so timid, but Hannibal also sensed he will bend, and then bite back before he breaks.

Will suddenly notices the silence lingering between them. He looks over at Dr Lecter and catches him staring, quite intently. This flusters him a bit. Will stammers “I…sorry, I just wanted to know if you had something else for me to do. There haven’t been any calls or patients…”

“That’s quite alright, I think we can call it an early day. You may leave, socialize, whatever you like for the rest of the day.”

Before he could stop it, Will huffed out an unhappy laugh. “I don’t really socialize, Dr Lecter. I am terrible at it.”

“No friends? No dates?” Hannibal sits at his desk and lightly fiddles with a leather notebook, carefully casting his eyes away from Will’s – lest he spook him into silence again.

Will’s still taken aback, and recalls his quip from yesterday. “Um, no, not really. Though my mom keeps reminding me that a ‘lady friend’ has called this week.” He adds the last bit of information somewhat sourly.

“Don’t you want a lady friend? You’re a handsome young man, Will.”

He has no idea how the doctor can ask such questions and still sound bored as hell, but Will suspects he only asks questions is really would like to hear answers to – and have answers he’s already halfway worked out. It’s maddening, being led through the maze of his mind like this. He’s suddenly very irritated, and it shows in more ways than one.

Flushed from his neck to his ears, Will spits out “why, Dr Lecter, are you interested in me after all?”

Infuriatingly, Dr Lecter simply opens his notebook – it happens to be a sketchbook – and grins down at it, with those daunting teeth. He picks up a pencil and starts sketching. “Will, are you attracted to men?”

“Is this appropriate for you to ask your employee?” Will is even further off balance. He wants to bolt. But he also doesn’t want to show weakness to this man.

“I am simply curious, and a psychiatrist. You have twice now alluded to a homosexual attraction, wherever you think it originates. Perhaps something for you to consider, on your own time. As I said, you are young.”  
“And handsome?” Will snarks back.

“Yes.”

And that’s all the doctor says for a moment. Long enough to make Will shuffle nervously in place, and Hannibal takes pity on him.

“As I said, you are free for the day. Go visit your lady friend, or do whatever you wish.” Hannibal finally chances eye contact with Will. His ocean blue eyes look back with anxiety and ferocity. Good, he didn’t rattle him too much.

“Tomorrow, same time then?” Will asks.

“Of course. And maybe ask your mother how to iron.”

Will starts a little at that comment, but doesn’t respond. Of course that’s something he’d notice.

He gathers his things and leaves to walk home, since it’s hours before he’d be picked up by his mother. He’d like the time alone to think.

But his mother is waiting, outside in the car, radio playing and windows down. Shame and frustration churn in his chest. Is he really so infantile? He stalks over to the car, his oblivious-acting mother smiling wide while setting aside some lace she was knitting.

“What are you doing out here?” Will blinks behind his glasses still slightly fogged with humidity, trying to not let his frustration show any more than it already has.

His mother freezes in her smile and says, very sweetly. “Waiting for you, honey.”

“But. I was scheduled for 5 more hours.” Will says this flatly.

Her eyes drop, but her smile doesn’t. “I know.”

Will stares at his mother, and suddenly can’t pretend everything’s ok for a moment longer. “I’m walking home. From now on.” He leaves her softly stammering after him, but he cuts through a park so she can’t follow in the car.

 

He considers his employer, both as he intended to, and as a distraction. Will knows that he cleared his schedule to accommodate his first day jitters. Dr Lecter played it very cool, but he’s always noticed things about people. He just puts together little signs and happenings no one else seems to notice. The doctor was unobtrusive, calm, and very careful not to overwhelm him.   
Of course, being a psychiatrist could easily explain it – but to go through the trouble, that still puzzled Will.

And the shit about attraction to men. Will growls in frustration. He couldn’t have known. Dr Lecter had no way of knowing how his father had berated him. He’d been a shy teenager, and didn’t talk to anyone. He wasn’t sure about his sexuality, but he never told anyone, especially not his father. Yet, his father seemed to sense something. Will was never “man enough,” whatever the fuck that meant. He learned how to fish, he tried hunting, he fixed motors, but he cried too much. He let his face be soft when seeing something beautiful. He didn’t have the impenetrable wall of manhood like his father did.

Will intellectually knew this was all nonsense, but it hurt, all the same. His confusion didn’t help matters. He was attracted to women, even if he wasn’t the model of traditional masculinity.

The trouble is that, even without Dr Lecter’s comments, Will suspected he’d be wandering down these paths in his mind. There was something about Dr Lecter, some compelling feeling he inspired in the back of Will’s mind. His voice had authority without volume. He claimed his space, yet held space for Will to be himself. He had control, absolutely, and Will felt like he wouldn’t mind being told what to do by his boss. Which was a good thing, but a new thing. Will hadn’t been comfortable with his father’s demands, or the rude doctors in the hospital, but he simply tuned them out. Or felt something else he inflicted on himself.

But Hannibal Lecter was so calm in his mastery, so subtle, it made Will both calm and wildly curious, which incited a strange kind of anticipation in him. It wasn’t quite anxiety, but it sent ripples through him that he liked, in some way. In any case, he wished for more. Which was troubling and exciting.

Dr Lecter said he was handsome. He also never denied he was attracted to him. _He’s also my fucking BOSS,_ Will reminds himself angrily. He’s not going to stay out of the hospital very long if he starts flirting with his psychiatrist boss. Yet…

Will’s still wrestling with his conflicting emotions when he walks into the house, to see Molly there. 

_Oh. Shit._


	4. Chapter 4

Will stands just inside the door, silent and awkward. Was she waiting when his mom got home? What on earth is happening?

Molly smiles, and his mother springs into action, twittering away about Molly being in the neighborhood and she brought such a nice cake, isn’t it nice to see her, as he was herded onto the couch right next to Molly. He flushes and slides his glasses down his nose so he doesn’t have to see as much. He’s not done thinking over the day’s events, and now he’s bombarded with noise and an expectation to be a person. He barely hears anything said, and hopes he nods in the right places.

Will just wants to get away. It’s not that he doesn’t like Molly, he doesn’t really know how he feels about her – he just doesn’t want to be around anyone. He needs to be alone with his thoughts, so they don’t get tangled in everything else before he can sort them.

Dr Lecter mentioned the “lady friend” as an option for an afternoon activity. Now that he’s faced with it, he just wants to bolt. His employer shouldn’t feel so familiar, and Molly, an old school friend, feel so alien. Why is everything is his life backwards?

“… why don’t y’all go out and have fun? I can clear this up, you take Molly out for a fun time!” Will’s mother cocks her head like a parakeet with a veneer smile, and Will freezes. He’s told her about volunteering him for social activities. That dark pulse starts in his gut again. Feelings of worthlessness and being totally lost engulf him. He thinks maybe he’ll just sit on the couch for the rest of his life.

Molly offers “oh, no Mrs Graham, that’s ok, I have a church meeting I can’t miss, maybe some other time!” She squeezes Will’s hand and sends him a sympathetic look. Will knows she came with the intention of ingratiating herself to his mom; she didn’t quite count on him returning from work early. She was embarrassed, but also sorry for his mother acting the way she was. Molly respected his anxiety and need for space. He always liked that about her.

But the visit with his mother – she has intentions. Or wants Will to have intentions. He doesn’t know what he wants.

After murmuring goodbyes and thanks, Will sprints upstairs before his mother can get a word in – he’s definitely not ready for questions. He throws himself on the bed once in his room, and tries to slow his thoughts. They keep tumbling and crashing. His stream is now full of rapids, and he can’t keep one thing in focus at a time.

He grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes and groans in frustration. He knows what will calm him. He hates it. But it will work.

Will retrieves and opens his fishing hook case.

 

The first week of employment is easy for Will, partly because of Dr Lecter’s efforts to ease him in, but mostly because it’s mind-numbing work and it’s not at home. Even with his father absent, the house holds memories, and his unhelpful mother. He types, he answers phones, makes appointments in his messy scrawl, which looks ghastly next to Dr Lecter’s copperplate script, but he seems not to mind. In fact, the doctor seems to be charmed by Will’s very presence. It makes him vaguely wary; he knows he’s not charming, he’s so clumsy that Hannibal relieved him of coffee duty. The doctor is particular about everything he eats and drinks. Dr Lecter is the kind of guy who brings a very fussy prepared lunch he made himself. He’s definitely an odd employer in many ways.

It took Will a few days to work up the courage to say little more to Dr Lecter than pleasantries and “yes sir,” but he finally asks the question gnawing at the back of his mind.

“Dr Lecter? I was wondering…why do you keep a mushroom garden? I mean, people around here tend to have tropical flowers or cacti or whatever, but you have this…terrarium with mushrooms that aren’t local, that live in cooler climates, and….I’m sorry. I like the outdoors, and wanted to move north…” Will looks away and blushes, cursing himself for rambling again.

But Hannibal just quietly beams. “Well, I am not from here, or any other tropical area, myself. I find myself homesick for the dark forests of my home. And I’m fond of growing my own culinary fungi. Fungi are amazing, you know. There are vast networks in the soil of it, and it keeps the entire ecosystem healthy. It connects everything. Much like a mind in the soil. Your mind makes connections, does it not?” He doesn’t look at Will, but he feels Dr Lecter’s attention upon him anyway. He unconsciously shuffles away.

Hannibal moves to the terrarium and points out the various edibles, including some ferns he harvests fiddleheads from. This is a way to reach Will, but he must tread carefully.

“For many centuries, taxonomists classified mushrooms as plants, which makes intuitive sense, but we now know they are much closer to animals. They move, they communicate, their life cycle is not one of plants. They occupy a space between plants and animals, living in soil, but taking life from death and decay, not the sun. They may exist in darkness, but don’t always need to.” 

Will wanders closer to the shadowy indoor garden as Hannibal talks, feeling his words and voice uncoil something cool and soothingly dark in his belly. He smells the dusky rot, a wet forest smell that was rather pleasant, even with the damp mushroomy dirt edge to it. He could almost imagine himself becoming one with the reaching filaments of Dr Lecter’s mushrooms, the soft decay of his flesh feeding the soil and becoming fruit of not-plant not-animal organisms that connect without reservation or pain. It was soothing. Beautiful, in a way.

“Will? Where are you just now?”

“Um, well. Honestly?”

“Honestly. I know I am your employer, but you may speak freely with me. And though you aren’t my patient, I would extend the same promise of confidentiality to you.”

Will blushes and blurts “I was in the dirt. I was just…imagining myself buried. Food for the fungi.”

Dr Lecter regards Will for a moment, not unkindly, but with a kind of coolness. “As I said, the structure of fungi often mirrors that of a brain. It makes sense that you would seek connection, even in a subtly fatalistic way. Still, it is beautiful in its own way – giving voice to the unmentionable.”

Will starts a little at hearing his thoughts come out of the doctor’s mouth. No one has followed his own train of thought so effortlessly before. He always baffled people around him. He doesn’t know how to react to someone understanding him. 

Hannibal decides to chance a touch – just a hand on his shoulder. Will stiffens slightly, but also leans into his hand. Connection. Good.

“You should feel free to talk to me, any time, Will. Alana never broke her confidence towards you, I assure you, but I know she still worries about you.”

Will smirks before he can stop himself. “What did you tell her, that I sometimes can’t speak up into the phone or make eye contact with patients?” His automatic self-loathing weaves itself into the question.

“I told her you were an astonishingly good typist, you improve your social skills every day, and not as fragile as she seems to fear. You are no little china teacup.”

“Then what am I, Dr Lecter?” Will has no idea why he’s suddenly feeling so quarrelsome.

“A very thoughtful young man, one with depths you have yet to explore, but you most certainly will. You have the ability to immerse yourself in uncomfortable mindsets, yet remain yourself.”

“Imagination has a price, Dr Lecter. I am not unscathed.”

Dr Lecter considers Will for a moment, and decides against pressing this line of discussion further. Will is getting anxious. He moves to his desk, retrieves several pages of his perfectly looped handwriting, and hands them to Will. “Please make sure this is typed up and ready for the post tomorrow. Then you may go to lunch. I have a few appointments this afternoon, so make sure you’re not late coming back.”

“Yes sir.” Will takes the sheaf of writing and turns to go. Turns back and musters the courage to meet Dr Lecter’s glowing honey eyes. “Thank you, for speaking with me. For listening to me.” Tears spring to Will’s eyes, and he turns quickly away again.

“Any time, Will. About anything. I mean that.”

Will quickly scuttles out of the office and back to his desk, scrubbing the tears from his face with his sleeve. He can’t remember saying so much to one person when he didn’t have to. He knows he’s never had anyone actually understand anything he said either, not when it came to his feelings, his thoughts. No one had really seen him before. To be fair, he stopped allowing people to see when he worried too many adults as a child. But Dr Lecter had _seen and understood._

This was utterly unexpected.

More, he _accepted_ Will.

Hannibal Lecter is most definitely not a normal employer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The school year starting threw my brain out of whack, so sorry for the stall in updates. I'm still very much telling myself this story, so it will be written. :)

Will begins to dread the weekends.

One would think that a job with no working weekends would be enviable, but Will still struggles with home life. His time away at work only seems to intensify his constant discomfort at home. The nice thing about working in a psychiatrist’s office is that no one is very interested in talking to the help or each other. Will has found it rather easy to remain in the background, busy, productive, and largely ignored. And most evenings after work, he can beg off too much discussion of his life with his mother, the excuse of needing to rise early sure to cut her inquiries short. 

But every Friday, she urges Will to go out, “have fun”, and she really means “go on a date with Molly, please, be normal.” The strain in her voice whenever she led him in that direction was like sandpaper on his nerves, and it buried him in frustrated silence. Molly visited once more, on a Saturday, when she was certain Will would be there, and not surprise him again. He appreciated her attempts to put him at ease, but the fact was, he didn’t feel ready, and wasn’t sure he’d ever be. He couldn’t protect Molly as he was, much less seem to feel the same warmth for her she glowed at him. He wondered what was wrong with him, frustrated that something so simple and human as dating felt so utterly beyond him.

When it comes down to it, he’d rather be at work, would rather be mindlessly typing or taking dictation from Dr Lecter, listening to his smooth and cool voice. It was a mystery, how this odd man calmed him when everyone else sent his jagged mind reeling, but it was fact, and one that   
Will had no wish to examine too closely. One day he’d need to, but as things stood, it was simply a relief in his life.

One Friday night, he simply can’t put his mother or Molly off any longer, so he goes out for pizza with Molly. Nothing more awkward than having his mother drive them to their date, but for whatever reason she insists that Will should pick Molly up, despite not knowing how to drive – how to tell her that this only increases his feelings of uselessness, he hasn’t the slightest idea. He hopes things will be better once they get to their destination, but they improve only slightly once his mother leaves.

“Sorry I didn’t just pick you up, it’s really silly how your mom insisted…” Molly offers, and Will can only shrug in half-hearted agreement. “I’ll just not tell her next time. I’ll work it out with you and show up. Ok?”

“I mean, if you want a next time” Will tries to joke. 

Molly gives him a shy smile and orders for both of them. He’s thankful for her picking up his slack in social areas. He could certainly do worse than Molly. He still wishes he wasn’t expected to be social at all. He wonders what was so wrong with him, that he was upset rather than grateful that a pretty and genuinely kind woman was interested in him.

He simply didn’t want her. Which is harsh, perhaps even cruel, but it’s the truth. He wonders if he actually wants Dr Lecter. He blushes at the thought, embarrassed and thrilled.

Molly takes his flush of color as plain social anxiety and tries her best to assuage him – “you know, I meant it when I said I had a breakdown as well. I really did. I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, and I locked myself in my room for a week. No one tells you there’s no manual for being an adult.” She smiles again, and takes Will’s hand from across the table. “You know you don’t need to impress me. I like you.”

Will has no idea how to answer this. He stares over her head and tries to not panic. “You….like me?” he finally says, truly unable to process this information.

“Yeah. I really do. I’ve kind of always liked you. Wondered what a relationship with you would be like. I think we’d be good together, y’know? I know you don’t like talking much, or going out, but that’s ok – I don’t always like it, or need it. Quiet time is good for me too.”

Will’s frantic mind snags on one word – “relationship” – he even whispers it to himself and feels his chest cramp in panic. He pulls his hand from her warm grip and gulps the wine newly arrived at their table. Gasps a little at the head-rush he gave himself, and chuckles self-consciously. 

“I….Molly I don’t see myself in a relationship. I’m unstable and….I don’t know, I just don’t see it.”

“Well, let’s just see how dinner goes then,” she offers and smiles. Will smiles back, but it feels brittle and fake. Oh well.

Molly does most of the talking, with Will making his dry jokes here and there, which makes her laugh – real laughter too, not nervous or embarrassed. He still wishes he was having a better time than he is. She appears to not notice how uncomfortable he is, or simply takes it as a matter of course, which it is. She tries to flirt a couple of more times, and Will pretends to not notice that – he couldn’t respond anyway.

Observing this awkward display of hormones and anxiety, Dr Lecter happened to be dropping a few suits off at a dry cleaners in the same humble strip mall as the pizzeria. He paused just out of view of the couple, watching from an angle through the plate glass windows. Hannibal feels an odd twinge of jealousy, despite noting Will’s screaming anxiety through the whole affair with this young lady. That part is reassuring, that Will is so discomfited, whether because of the social theater or being with the “lady friend” he dismissed himself as not being of particular interest, is unclear.

Hannibal doesn’t wish to dwell on the dating life of his much younger employee, but finds himself unable to avoid it. He makes himself walk back to his car, still glancing back at the awkward scene in the restaurant. He doesn’t know exactly when, but sometime between starting his car and parking at his house, he decides to do something about this. Carefully, he will find a way, but Will needs him more than he realized.

 

The next week, Will is grateful to be back in the dim and spacious offices of Dr Lecter, but still feels the anxiety in his gut. Even taking a knife to his arms hasn’t helped, and he’s nervous around Dr Lecter in ways he wasn’t before. It’s almost as if he knows that he was out with Molly, but that’s crazy. Isn’t it? Dr Lecter is perceptive in ways other people never are, save for Will himself, and he swears he feels some thread of…is it jealousy?... towards him for whatever reason.

One particularly busy day, Will is called into the doctor’s office, and he finds him looking through his desk with an air of slight frustration.

“Ah, Will. I believe I must I have thrown away therapy notes on Mr Budge by accident.” Hannibal fetches a sigh, looks at Will. “I don’t suppose you’d…”

Will blurts out before thinking “look through the garbage?”

Hannibal has to hide his true glee at Will arriving there without much driving. “Yes, dear Will, if you would.”

Will curses himself for offering, but there’s nothing for it, so he quickly turns to do as he is bid. At least he doesn’t have to sit in the waiting room with Mrs DuBois, who just will not shut up. He’d honestly rather climb in the dumpster than hear about the latest way her children disappointed her.

He clambers into the dumpster, the smell not as bad as he feared – not as much take-out in this dumpster, as Dr Lecter doesn’t seem to indulge in any. Dr Lecter observes this from his office window, positively delighted. Will tears into bags, throws them over his shoulder, commits to finding those notes. Hannibal has to admire the young man, as he would never do such a thing himself – and he wonders what would cause him to think so little of himself. That’s not quite right.

He doesn’t dwell on pride. Will clearly has deep self-esteem issues, but it’s more than that. He doesn’t let expectations keep him from striving. Fascinating.

How far does this go?

Hannibal intends to find out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an unbetaed emotional text dump! I think it was so difficult to start it, once I started, it got away from me, so it got long. I think it's mostly good tho.

Sweating and uncomfortable, Will stands silently next to the doctor’s large desk, holding the filthy file he retrieved from the dumpster out in front of himself. Dr Lecter pointedly ignores him, continuing to write a letter. Will starts to wonder what exactly this is all about. What game his weird employer is playing.

Finally, Will loudly clears his throat, and impetuously shoves the stinking file under the doctor’s aristocratic nose. Dr Lecter starts a bit at that, which pleases Will – fuck being ignored after rooting through the damn garbage.

“It’s alright, I found another copy.” Hannibal doesn’t even fully raise his head to say this, still writing in his perfect script, his nose only slightly wrinkling at the smell.

“….oh….” Will sighs, doing his best to keep his annoyance from showing too much in his actions, but unable to keep from slamming the file into the wastebasket a bit hard. He’s not sure he likes this game, whatever it is. It is a game, he feels this.

Dr Lecter suddenly breaks apart his thoughts by shoving two folders and the letter into his hands, rather more abruptly than usual. “I need these files photocopied, and the letter typed up, two copies.”

“Alright,” Will murmurs, thrown off balance by the sudden coldness from his employer. Maybe it’s just a bad day. He turns to leave and get to his work.

“Oh, Will, I nearly forgot, the traps need resetting. Please do that first.”

 _At least he said please_ Will thinks glumly, putting his paperwork on the floor to retrieve the traps and bait from the mini fridge tucked into the line of cabinets, made to look just like all the others – of course Dr Hannibal Lecter is the type to spend money covering a damn mini fridge so it matches the rest of the décor.

Dr Lecter uses live traps for the mice, which Will finds incredibly odd and not very practical – they just come back – but maybe he’s the kind of guy who can’t kill any living thing. Dr Lecter certainly seems like the kind of mild mannered guy who doesn’t like swatting flies, on the surface. But Will knows this isn’t exactly true. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does – so the live traps are odd, besides being impractical.

Will crawls across the office to place the traps, struggling a bit with placing the bait and setting the mechanism. Somewhere in the struggle, his shirtsleeves get pushed up, revealing a line of band aids from his latest round of taking his failures out on himself. As soon as he realizes he’s exposed, he looks up at Hannibal.

He’s staring. Right at Will’s arm, he’s looking with fucking curiosity at his taped up wounds.

Will panics and shoves the last set trap under the chair and the phone rings. He scrambles to his feet, grabbing his pile of work, and sprints out of the office to his own desk, and picks up the phone. “Dr Hannibal Lecter’s office –“ Will says into the phone, ready to ignore his embarrassment, hopeful that the doctor won’t comment on it.

“William? S’that you?” His father’s voice creaks out of the phone, causing Will to freeze.

“Dad? Dad, where are you?” He can’t keep all of the tears out of his voice. He can’t help it, this is his father, even with all the ugliness his alcoholism has caused. Will doesn’t know which is stronger sometimes, his love for his dad, or his utter loathing for what the drink makes him. It hurts, no matter what.

“I…I don’t know, Will, please, I’m sorry, I need help” his father slurs into the phone, also close to tears, and Will feels that dark pulse under his skin. _Oh, not now._

At that moment, a blonde woman walks in this front door. Her icy gaze falls on Will, who feels far more rumpled and dirty being seen by this artfully coiffed woman. Not a single gold hair is out of place as it coils down her shoulder, over her dark red blouse. She moves to Will’s desk, heels tapping the wooden floors gently, but she moves so smoothly it’s almost like seeing a statue walk.

“Is Hannibal here?” her voice is barely above a husky whisper, and continues to regard Will with the same cold stare, as he’s lost for words, between his weeping father on the phone and this woman, who exudes something predatory.

“I…hold on” Will manages to stutter out, right before she rolls her eyes and slips back into the doctor’s office. Shit, he thinks, but there’s nothing for it now. He just hopes it doesn’t make Dr Lecter even more cold towards him, or get upset. He’s been holding this receiver against his shoulder, and quickly places it back to his ear.

“Dad? Dad??” he calls into the receiver, but only road noise greets him. His father has walked off from whatever payphone he has used. Will is briefly grateful that he didn’t call collect this time, especially at his place of work. That would be horrifying to explain to his boss.

Still, this is just too much. He can’t do his job, apparently. In a fit of pure frustration, he slams the receiver down into the cradle, hard. He does this again. And again. He feels like he’s going to cry. He wants to scream. Instead he just stands there and shakes.

The blonde woman stalks back out of the office, pauses at the outside door, and Will feels her chilly stare on him. He feels like melting into the floor behind his desk. He makes himself raise his eyes to hers, and asks “Do you need an appointment?”

She smiles slightly, and blinks slowly, putting Will in the mind of a cat. “I see he’s found himself another project. Just remember, submission doesn’t mean unconditional surrender.”

Will is confused and stunned by her remark. “Wh….what???” he stammers, mouth hanging open.

She just smiles the coldest smile Will has ever seen, and remarks “Remind him to sign the papers. He must be distracted, indeed.” Soft clicks of her heels, and she’s out the door.

He stands behind his desk, confused and very near tears. He feels like he’s spilling everywhere – he needs to regain control. How did his father even know where he works? And that woman, what the fuck is going on with her and Dr Lecter? What does she know?

All these thoughts crash around inside Will’s head and start building speed. He can’t do this here. He has to do this here.

He rips open the top left hand drawer of his desk and grabs his fishhook case. He can do this quickly. He sets out his first aid things to save clean up time. Plucks a razor he has pressed against the side of one of the compartments for emergencies. Rolls up his right sleeve – the left is already bandaged up – but as he barely presses the blade against his skin, bracing for that stinging kiss, he looks up, and sees Hannibal.

Staring at him. His face is largely unreadable.

Will’s heart plunges in his chest and he stops breathing. He sits like a stunned deer in the headlights of Hannibal’s regard, only screaming on the inside. He stares back at the doctor, suddenly positive he was going back to the hospital.

Good. Will is suddenly tired and would like to slip back into any stream, even a murky one, if it means even just a measure of quiet.

Dr Lecter walks up to Will’s desk, regarding the little kit of self harm, picking up one of his hand-tied lures, the bright feathers holding rusty spots of blood. He studies this as if it’s a work of art, and Will shakes himself from his stunned catatonia. He starts furiously shoving the blade, bandages, and iodine back into the little case, still shaking.

Suddenly a hand covers Will’s. Dr Lecter’s hand is large and warm, and Will has no idea why he has the fleeting thought that he’s like to curl up inside it. He can’t look at the doctor right now, he knows he’s going to cry.

“Will. Please come into my office.” Dr Lecter places the lure reverently back in its compartment and closes the lure case. He then turns and walks to his office door, holding it open, waiting. For Will to come inside.

 _ShitshitSHIT_ Will’s mind starts up, but his feet move him into the doctor’s large and dim office. _He’s going to call Dr Bloom and I’m going to be back in the hospital, maybe that’s not so bad, I just wish it was over already_ – his clambering brain is skipping along to his final destination, alone, always alone.

Dr Lecter shocks him by taking his hand again and guiding him to the chaise lounge nearest the windows. By sitting next to him, and finally, pulling up his left sleeve, exposing the bandages there. Will stiffens, yet also wants to melt, just slump down and cry. He fights this and stiffens more.

Dr Lecter quietly examines the wounds on Will’s arm, as a doctor would. That makes it a little better. Not much. Will has never felt so utterly exposed, even when completely naked. He flushes and pulls his arm from the doctor’s gentle hands, despite enjoying the touch.

 _I’m so fucking silly,_ Will thinks. 

Hannibal turns towards Will, bending his face towards him, tries to see through the riot of curls he’s confronted with on Will’s bowed head.

“You shouldn’t let Bedelia upset you, she’s rather incorrigible. I didn’t expect you to keep her from doing anything, you may leave that to me in the future.”

Will buries his face in his hands and angrily groans. It’s the best he can do, because he can’t cry. He would suffer so much before he cried in front of anyone.

Suddenly, that warm hand is on his hunched back. “That isn’t the only thing bothering you, is it Will?”

 _Goddamn this perceptive asshole_ Will thinks, but finds himself speaking. “No. That woman….Bedelia? She did freak me out, but no, I’m just a mess anyway. And my dad called, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to tell him to not call me at work, he hasn’t even been home…” He realizes he’s babbling, and draws in a deep, shaking breath. “Sorry. I’ll keep things professional.”

The doctor is running his hand up and down Will’s tense back, gently smoothing his anxious energy a bit. He’s rather pleased to have been given a reason to untangle Will’s anxiety. Whatever dark monsters are stalking inside this boy’s skull, Hannibal wants to see them. And make them serve their proper master.

“Will. You needn’t apologize. I am a psychiatrist, I can help you, if you wish. If you’re not comfortable talking to me, as you do work for me, I can make a referral.”

“Might as well lock me up again, honestly” Will remarks glumly.

“Do you think you need to be? I won’t leave you in danger, Will.”

“No, no, I don’t really want to kill myself, I just…..” Will struggles how to finish whatever thought he’s having; also wondering at his insistence he doesn’t need to go back to the hospital. Isn’t that easier?

Maybe easier isn’t right this time.

“Do you hurt yourself because the pain inside is so great, it must come out? That by causing yourself pain you can control, you can release emotional pain? Do the wounds prove to you that your pain is real?” Hannibal is rewarded with Will’s blue and bewildered gaze at this question that isn’t really a question.

“That’s a way to put it.” Will doesn’t know what he feels at this moment. Again, it’s as if Dr Lecter opened up his skull and read the wrinkles of his brain like a fortune teller reads palms. Except he’s terrifyingly accurate. Precise, even. He finds himself understood by this strange man again, and somehow it’s better than if he’d cut himself again. He’s suddenly glad he didn’t.

As if reading his thoughts again, Hannibal pulls his hand into his lap, covering it with those gentle and strong hands. He looks Will straight in the eyes. “I’m going to tell you something, Will, are you ready to listen?”

The way his sharp eyes look at him, and something in his tone, that elusive quiet authority, causes Will to straighten himself, and look back at him. He almost knows what’s coming. He nods to the doctor, never breaking eye contact.

“Will, you will never harm yourself again. You will not cut, puncture, scrape, or do anything of the sort to yourself from now on. That part of your life is over. Do you understand?”

Will feels as if his throat is filled with cotton. Part of his mind is screaming that Dr Lecter must be crazy, you can’t just demand that a mentally ill person just _STOP_ whatever self destruction they’re doing. Yet, he finds himself nodding his head, and a weight flying out of his chest as he sighs “yes. Ok.”

“No more bleeding yourself, Will. No matter how calming it may be in the moment, it doesn’t address your underlying problems. And if you’d permit me, I’d be pleased to help you with those. Obviously, you require relief from the stress you are under. So I’d like you to take the rest of the day. Maybe don’t go home immediately. Take time in the fresh air, examine your feelings, and we can talk about them later, if you wish. You must confront these things, especially since you won’t be mutilating yourself to bury them anymore.”

Will stares up at Dr Lecter, who has released his hand and stood, fixing his suit jacket. “Alright,” 

Will breathes, still hardly believing what has just happened. This man saw him, saw a deep and dark part of him, and didn’t flinch.

Will stands awkwardly, vaguely aware that he just took a personal life command from his boss. Psychiatrist or not, this is strange. He wants to say something.

“Dr Lecter? Thank you. Sorry again. Talking to my dad just….it’s very upsetting, especially when he’s been drinking for over a week straight” he barks out a nervous laugh at this, aware that he’s spilling his guts again – but now that he knows Will’s most horrible habit, what’s a little family drama?

Hannibal pauses at his desk, turns to regard the young man standing and walking to the door. “Will. If you would, answer one more question for me?”

Will stops in the doorway, his wet and mournful eyes glittering at the doctor. “Sure.”

“Does your father abuse you?”

He starts at this. “What? No, he doesn’t hit me, well, anymore. He’s just…always been disappointed in me. In how I act. I mean, I’m sick, right? I don’t act like a man ever should.”

Dr Lecter’s eyes suddenly become hard and cold, but not at Will himself. He doesn’t know how he knows, but Will always knows these things. It’s one of the failings his father berated him for.

“Honestly, he’s just had a tough few years, and I can’t help him, that’s all.”

“He must help himself, Will, as it is with everyone. But nevermind that, go relax. Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Will nods and leaves. Hannibal sits at his desk, considering all of this information. Will definitely needs relief. From many things.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever and means a lot to me, plz be nice.


End file.
